The Beggar King

brings you to your unfortunate present situation?”

The medicus saw his chance but paused a moment before answering. “I was engaged in a passionate dispute concerning our Savior’s poverty and the trenchant observations of Wilhelm von Ockham when the night watchmen came and rudely interrupted us. My disputatious interlocutor was able to flee, but the bailiffs caught me and locked me in this drafty hole.”

The monk shook his head in indignation. “And thus scholarship goes to the dogs! We must continue this conversation at my house.”

Simon eyed him with astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

Brother Hubertus was already knocking loudly on a door that led into the city hall. The two workmen continued snoring, unperturbed.

“Just let me take care of it,” the monk said. “I know these barbarians.”

After a while a key turned in the squeaky lock and the scrawny night watchman stuck his nose through the doorway.

“Have you slept it off then, Brother Hubertus?” He grinned.

“Don’t be fresh, Hannes”-the monk shook his finger-“or there will be consequences, believe me. I’ll talk to the bishop about this.”

The night watchman sighed. “That’s what you always say, but you know just as well as I do that we have the right to detain even honorable society if they defy the curfew and-”

“Yes, yes, very well,” replied Brother Hubertus, nudging the bailiff aside and pressing a few coins into his hand. “You don’t have to preach it from the rooftops. And he’s coming with me,” he said, pointing to Simon.

“Him?” The night watchman gave Brother Hubertus an astonished look. “But he’s nothing more than a lowlife drifter; he’s not even from around here. You can hear it in the way he talks.”

“And I can hear when someone has nothing inside his head but stinking straw like you. He’s a learned man, but you numbskulls don’t have any understanding of that.”

“Ah, I see, a scholar.” The night watchman looked skeptically at Simon. “I’ve seen this scholar somewhere before, but I just can’t remember-”

“Nonsense,” Hubertus interrupted. “The man is coming with me, and that’s that. Here, this is for your expenses.”

He put two more coins in the bailiff’s coat pocket and led Simon into a guardroom adjacent to the House of Fools. The scrawny night watchman, grinding his teeth and glaring, wouldn’t take his eyes off the medicus.

“It’ll come to me,” he mused, then drew close to Simon again. “Don’t show your face around here again, scholar,” he sneered. “Next time you won’t be stuck with a fat monk who believes your blatherings. Then we’ll take our clubs and beat the learning out of you.” He smiled smugly and waved goodbye to the monk, who was already storming through another door and out of the building.

“Until next time, Brother Hubertus.” The night watchman sighed. “It was nice doing business with you.” With that, he glared at Simon and ran his index finger across his neck in warning.

The medicus staggered into city hall square where tradesmen were just opening up shop. In the east the sun was rising over the rooftops of Regensburg.

Magdalena ripped the Venetian’s shirt in two and began washing the blood from his chest. Silvio lay on a four-poster bed that took up half an enormous bedroom on the second floor. Here, as in the dressing room, mirrors were hung throughout the room, as well as paintings of biblical scenes with all sorts of fat little cherubs-all framed in what appeared to be pure gold.

“Santa Maria, I think I’m in heaven,” the Venetian sighed, closing his eyes. “This must be paradise, and you must be an angel sitting at my side.”

“Just hold still, damn it!” Magdalena cursed, dabbing the wounds with a wet cloth. “Or you’ll really be seeing angels soon.”

Silvio was injured below the right nipple. Although a rib had, fortunately, deflected the blade, the wound bled profusely, as did the cut on Silvio’s left upper arm.

Magdalena went about her work in silence. She found some fine fustian in a bedroom trunk, which she tore into long strips to bandage Silvio’s chest and forearm. To help him recover from his loss of blood, she also heated some water on the hearth in the main room, then added honey and the juice of the little green and yellow fruits she found in Silvio’s garden. She poured the steaming brew in a cup by the bed, but the Venetian just shook his head in disgust when Magdalena handed it to him.

“I prefer a strong Tokay,” he said. “You’ll find an excellent vintage over there in the cupboard-”

“Oh, no,” Magdalena objected. “This is a sick visit, not a little tryst. If you don’t do exactly as I say, your little angel will fly right away. Understood?”

Silvio sighed meekly and opened his mouth so that Magdalena could spoon-feed him the concoction. Between doses he pummeled her with questions about what had happened since her sudden flight from his garden a few days back. Magdalena refused to answer at first but, upon further consideration, decided to let Silvio in on at least some details. As the Venetian ambassador, he could be a powerful ally in her attempt to free her father. She was, simply put, in no position to reject such help.

“My father…” she began haltingly. “He’s locked in the city dungeon for two murders he didn’t commit.”

Silvio looked at her questioningly. “Do you mean the murders of the bathhouse owner and his wife that the whole town is talking about?”

Nodding, Magdalena recounted the remarkable events of the past few days-their arrival in Regensburg, the break-in at the bathhouse, and the cryptic letter naming a certain Weidenfeld.

“And now you believe this Weidenfeld cooked all this up just to see your father hang?” Silvio inquired incredulously between spoonfuls of the warm brew.

Magdalena shrugged. “The beggars believe the patricians had both Hofmanns killed because my uncle was one of these freemen, but that seems too simple. Then there’s the letter the hangman’s boy brought me, which isn’t from my father at all. Somebody’s trying to pay him back for something.”

Silvio leaned back in the bed. The loss of blood had weakened him, and his face was still as white as wax.

“I’d be glad to help you,” he whispered. “But I don’t know what I can do.”

“What do you know about Mamminger?” Magdalena asked abruptly.

“Mamminger?” Silvio looked surprised. “The Regensburg city treasurer? Why do you ask?”

“He’s involved somehow,” Magdalena replied. “He met with this murderer, in your own garden.”

The little Venetian whistled through his teeth. “Paulus Mamminger, ringleader of a conspiracy to murder? I miei ossequi, signorina. My compliments! When that gets out, heads will roll in Regensburg, and I don’t mean your father’s.”

Magdalena nodded excitedly. “Exactly. Can you find out more about Mamminger? You have influence with the city council, don’t you?”

Silvio sat up in bed, twirling his mustache. “I’ll see what can be done. But let’s not talk anymore about politics; let’s talk instead about… amore.”

He pulled Magdalena to him and kissed her gently on the cheek.

The hangman’s daughter recoiled as if bitten by a snake and gave the Venetian a firm slap in the face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. “Do you think you can just buy me with gowns and balls and connections? I’m a midwife, not a prostitute.”

Silvio’s face blanched a shade whiter.

“Signorina, I beg your forgiveness. I thought the two of us-”

“Signorina nothing! If you think I’m your mistress, you’re making a big mistake. I may be the daughter of a hangman-a dishonorable and dirty person who hauls shit away from the streets-but I’m no whore. Remember that, you drunk old Venetian ass!”

She stood up and marched to the door, her hair flying behind her. Holding the door handle, she turned around and glared at him, her eyes flashing.

“Drink a glass of that stuff three times a day, you understand? And call one of your mistresses to help you change that dressing by tomorrow morning at the latest. I hope it hurts like hell when she tears it off your skin. Get well soon!”

She slammed the door and left Silvio staring open-mouthed at his own dumbstruck image in the mirror.